


Right as Rain

by eirabach



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: Parker + Hidden Scar for bad things happen bingo on tumblr
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Right as Rain

Gordon grimaces up at him from his living room bed, boredom in every line of his face, and Parker thinks ‘ _ere we go_.

“So what’s the story with the jacket then, you a fisherman in your last life or something?”

It’s not the worst question the lad could ask, at least.

Parker flexes gloved hands as he pours the tea. Remembers, in that momentary way of remembering things you spend most of your days trying to forget, the lines under his sleeves, the marks around his neck. Parker doesn’t lack for scars.

It’s only to be expected, really. You don’t lead a life like he has -- _allegedly_ \-- without falling foul of a few who’d see you suffer for your art. Nor, it has to be said, can you continually save the world without a few notches on your flesh to show for it. And as battered and bandaged as he is, he’d have expected Gordon to know that.

He should have known better than to expect _tact_ , though.

“Or _something_ ,” he mutters, then, ”Some of us like to ‘ave a little more subtlety in our wardrobes than others.” 

“Yeah, but, why do you _wear_ all _that_ ?” The lad’s wrapped up in plaster and his Grandmother’s blankets, there’s sweat beading between his eyebrows, but he gestures towards Parker’s leather and wool with poorly disguised disgust. “Aren’t you _roasting_ ? I dunno if you’ve like, _noticed_ , but we are on a tropical island? And you’re dressed like -- like --”

Like a bank robber, cheeks painted dark and steel cold against his belly.

Like a spy, trussed up and betrayed, rope burning through leather gauntlets and searing at his throat.

Like a man, trusted with the greatest treasure the world could offer. 

A father who never was, never could be, until he’s faced with innocent blue eyes and pale skin and _take the shot, Penelope._

She does. Every time. He’s made sure of it. Insisted. Demanded and cajoled and spat blood at her feet, and when he bleeds it hurts to see the innocence fade, it does. But the wounds mean nothing other than just another layer to him, that’s all. Each fresh mark just another secret to be kept beneath the tweed and leather. Just another apology to brush off and dwell on in the dead of night when his muscles burn and his old bones creak.

( _I’m so sorry. Parker, Parker I’m so sorry._ )

Oh there’s a story there alright.

But he doesn’t tell it.

There’s an innocence in those dark eyes even now, familiar and _secretly_ , _secretly_ almost as precious to him as her light had been. Still is, in its way. So he shakes his head, huffs as he’s expected to, and drops the lad’s tea down, plans to tells him the same thing he tells her on those bitter, brisk mornings when the floor is too cold, the limp too hard to hide, and her brows draw low.

Low like his, now. This child with an old man’s ache. 

“-- are you okay, though? Really? You’ll get heatstroke, you know. Penny will kill me if you get sick.”

And he almost laughs. Almost.

“Never you mind, Mr Gordon. I’m right as rain.”


End file.
